


Live on your knees

by lucrethia



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Religious Fanaticism, Self-Flagellation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28128729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucrethia/pseuds/lucrethia
Summary: However, the first time Lancelot came face to face with the Green Knight, it was the impression of freedom emanating from the Fay that impressed him, a savage and indomitable beauty so bewitching that he couldn't help but admire it, fascinated.He had imagined this wild beast in the hands of the paladins, caged and tamed. He had contemplated the fire burning in his eyes and wondered what it would look like if it went out like the flame of a candle put under glass.This thought had gripped his heart with its cruelty and he could not bring himself to capture this incarnation of freedom that day or the next.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	Live on your knees

**Author's Note:**

> musical theme for this fic : Lacrimosa by Mozart

Freedom had always been something Lancelot thought was unattainable. He had sometimes dreamt of it, imagined what it would be like to be free, to be able to make his own decisions, but that was all it was: a dream; quickly pushed aside by the shadow of his father over his shoulder, by the threat of hell, of eternal damnation. Freedom is a utopia for the good reason that no one can live by doing only what he wants, there are always obligations, duties. Even more so when one is a demonic creature - the path to redemption leaves no room for personal and selfish desires. 

However, the first time Lancelot came face to face with the Green Knight, it was the impression of freedom emanating from the Fay that impressed him, a savage and indomitable beauty so bewitching that he couldn't help but admire it, fascinated.  
He had imagined this wild beast in the hands of the paladins, caged and tamed. He had contemplated the fire burning in his eyes and wondered what it would look like if it went out like the flame of a candle put under glass.This thought had gripped his heart with its cruelty and he could not bring himself to capture this incarnation of freedom that day or the next.

  
Until that fateful day when he was once again confronted with the knight. He had no choice, his father had ordered him to bring this Fay back alive and Lancelot obeyed. He captured Gawain and delivered him into the hands of the paladins, his red brothers.

Later in Brother Salt's tent, he was able to contemplate the man who had haunted his mind for so many years. Despite the suffering and wounds, despite the imminence of death, the wild fire in his eyes was never extinguished. Even when he was tied up, he always radiated that feeling of indomitable freedom that fascinated him so much. That evening, the knight had shown him compassion and Lancelot had repeated his father's words to him, even though his spirit was shouting at him that everything was false, that it was blasphemy, a sin. He had repeated them as a prayer, _but a prayer for whom?_ He's still not really sure. The knight was covered in blood, wounded, burnt... And Lancelot felt so dirty - he had finally managed to cage freedom.  
  
He had expiated, he had bled, but God had refused to answer his call. Suffering had not made him feel washed away. It was then that he understood: It wasn't God, it was human jealousy. - His father did not seek to please the Lord, only to eradicate freedom out of envy of what he could not possess, to break and subdue as he himself had broken, subdued and deprived of his free will. He had killed Brother Salt and detached the knight, taking him to Goliath.

He should have known that freedom was something he didn't deserve. He was damned, a creature of darkness destined to be chained; a black angel whose wings would have been cut off.

They had been caught by Wicklow and his guards of the trinity. Lancelot had fought in vain. He was now on his knees in the mud, his body broken and bloody, waiting for someone to put an end to his suffering, an end to his life of misery. But against all odds, Wicklow had ordered that he be tied up and taken back to the camps.

"I'm going to reeducate these two dogs and make them the spearhead that will pierce the heart of this wolf-blooded witch. »

A shiver of fear had run through his body. But it wasn't the fear of pain - it was the fear of seeing his nightmare come true, of seeing the fall of the creature of light that was lying next to him and too weak to move. The fear of finally seeing his own reflection in the subjugation of the Green Knight.

He had experienced freedom for a few hours, but that was enough to make him hungry for more. Freedom is something that only those who have known it are missing... He knows it now. He can't imagine how the Fay will feel when he is chained up and reduced to the rank of a dog, beaten, humiliated and stripped of his wings. But in spite of everything, a selfish thought whispers to him that this is what he has always wanted; he knows deep down in his soul that this is the case. He has always admired Gawain, envied this wild creature. He has always been jealous of this man, as much as he was attracted to him. The knight will no longer be a constant reminder of all that Lancelot has lost. He will no longer be alone, he will finally have a companion in misfortune, a brother, someone who will share his pain and sorrow. It is a comforting feeling that warms his chest and makes his heart beat faster - the Green Knight will always be with him, bound together like two kindred souls.

They were brought back to the camps and tied to a wooden stake like animals - a thick chain linking their iron collars to a ring fixed in the wood. It was that night that Lancelot realised that freedom is not something that can be granted, but something that must be decided and taken for oneself. You cannot deprive a creature of its freedom, it must give it up. The knight looks at him with eyes shining with fever, delirious in his agony, but still animated by the same wild flame.

"It is you, the black angel, the angel of death... Are you here to kill me? »

Words charged with hope made her heart tighten, an unbearable pain radiating throughout her body, bringing back images and sensations from the past; forgotten things like reminiscences from another life - like seeing someone else's memories pass by.

A young woman with watery eyes, a sweet and loving smile, the warmth and tenderness of a loving embrace. A feeling of joy he can't remember ever feeling, the feeling of having something more precious than his own life, of having a family - not being alone. Gawain's words hurt him like a vicious blade stuck deep into his flesh, and he remembers the day when everything was turned upside down; the day when his father came, tearing him from his home, turning him into an animal. He remembers begging brother Salt to kill him, wishing to die so hard that he thought he could stop his heart by his own free will. But no one was there to answer his prayer; no angel of death came for him, no charitable soul to deliver him from his chains. He had finally given up his freedom, his soul…

He realises that his eyes are wet and that the knight now looks at him with a compassion that no one has ever had for him, a gentleness and understanding that he does not deserve - not when all he wants is for this man to share his fate out of pure selfishness. When the knight speaks again, his voice is low, hoarse, interspersed with hissing and shallow breathing.

"You have finally opened your eyes, my brother. I knew you were still there, somewhere behind the veil of lies and suffering. "He coughed, and blood dyed his pale lips, leaving Lancelot with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I am sorry. Everything that happens to you is my fault. "The knight sighs and seems pensive.

"Everything that happens to me had to happen. We all make choices, sometimes they seem to be the right ones at the time... Sometimes our perception is distorted and we cling to lies because it's less painful than seeing the truth."

"I'm a monster, that's always been the truth. Not only by birth, I am a monster because I chose to be one. "Lancelot feels the tears flowing, black over his birth marks and his face covered with blood and dust. They are burning like acid. Painful and dark like the weight of his sins on his heart. The shame and horror of his awareness are too heavy and the tortured faces of all his victims resurface and impose themselves on him, fill his head, superimpose themselves on the face of the man in front of him. He wishes he could close the door, put an end to the deluge of remorse and guilt that tears him apart from the inside. But once the door is ajar it is impossible, the torrent only increases and enlarges the opening until the door is gaping, like an endless abyss open to hell, the mouth of the Devil himself. The Ashen feel trapped inside, drowned under the weight of all the lives it has taken, stolen. The voices of the dead shout scary, hurtful, _true things_ to him. He would like to silence them, but when he digs his nails into the skin of his skull and buries his tear-streaked face in his forearms, he can only see that they don't come from the outside, but from him, from the Abyss that the knight's words have opened. He is unaware of the sobs that shake his body, nor of the heart-rending cry that escapes from his lips - a cry of pain, of agony.

He resurfaces as a gentle warmth surrounds him, warming his icy body. It is as if a blinding light has suddenly emerged from the heavens to illuminate the infernal darkness, chasing away the shadows that assail him from all sides. Had God finally deigned to lower his gaze upon him and touch him with His Grace?

"Acknowledging his mistakes takes courage, now you will have to live with it. There is no turning back." He surrenders to the soothing touch, to the softness of Gawain's embrace. When he opens his eyes, the knight seems nimbus with a luminous aura, a softness and love emanates from him that makes Lancelot's heart tremble. _God sent him an angel... And Lancelot shot him down in flight._

His father's voice suddenly resounds in his ears. _"Satan himself disguises himself as an angel of light."_ What if it's another lie? What if the knight's apparent kindness was just a trick of the Devil? What if Gawain was only an emissary of The Beast in the guise of an angel? Lancelot feels his father's voice swell until it becomes a dull roar, like the roll of thunder, so powerful that it covers all the others, so powerful that he presses his two hands on his temples as if his skull were about to explode. _"The Devil reads the spirits to corrupt the righteous, he can know the darkest desires that haunt a man's heart and use them to his advantage."_ The desire to no longer be alone, to finally be understood and accepted - to keep Gawain at his side, he, the first to have called him _'my brother'_ , to have shown him compassion when he should have hated him, to have protected him when he should have revealed his secret and rejoiced to see him burn... Can this man really be a demon? If Satan disguises himself as an angel of light, can the divine take on the appearance of the Devil? How can we know? He is no longer certain of anything.

An insidious and sly thought creeps into his mind, crawling like a snake to whisper odious words to him and he clutches his skull tighter in his hands, feeling the tears flowing again as the powerful arms of the Green Knight hold him with the delicacy and comfort of a lover. _What if the lie was much bigger than he could imagine?_ What if The Beast he fears so much was already there, guiding him to the path to hell from the beginning? Could it be that he was mistaken, taking the Devil, disguised as God's envoy, for his own father, his guide, his landmark... Comforted day after day by his encouragement, corrupted by his lies, fashioned according to his desires?

The pain pulsing in his head is such that he can no longer think, all the assumptions get mixed up and blurred, leaving him powerless to untangle the true from the false. He feels the breaking point approaching, tearing his mind apart, that moment when reality and nightmares merge into a succession of incoherent and monstrous thoughts. He clings desperately to Gawain's ragged shirt and bury his face against his chest.The words of a prayer, inked in him for so many years that it seems to be part of him, escape from his trembling lips, jostle and follow each other like a litany whose meaning he is no longer able to grasp, in the hope of conjuring the demon that has taken possession of him.

At the end of what seems to him to be hours, days, the voices finally calm down, leaving him panting and trembling, as vulnerable as a newborn. Gawain hasn't moved, despite his wounds and the tiredness he can see in his eyes when Lancelot finally raises his head. He holds him gently, a hand caressing his back, giving him a comfort he doesn't think he deserves.

"I'm sorry, so sorry... I don't deserve your forgiveness, Green Knight, nor your mercy. »

"We don't always get what we deserve." The knight sighs, moving away from Lancelot, staggering a little on his knees. "Do you want to know how to get my forgiveness?" The young man nods eagerly, looking at the knight as if he is the solution to his torment, the revelation he's been waiting for. "Promise me that you won't let them make me their pet." At these words, Lancelot's eyes widened and a feeling of guilt invaded his chest again. He hates himself for imagining, even for a moment, that this proud and beautiful Fay could lower himself to his level, humiliate himself in front of the same men who made him the wreck Lancelot is now. No, Gawain would not deny his free and wild nature, he's better than that, better than him. "Promise me. Promise me you'll do the right thing and I'll forgive you." Lancelot looks down and doesn't answer, his throat tied by sadness and despair and a deep sense of loneliness grips his heart, crushing it under his weight.

Gawain sighs again, lowering his head in resignation. "I'm not like you, I couldn't live like this... Do you understand? _I don't want to become like you."_ A heavy silence settles in between the two, suddenly broken by Wicklow's nasal voice addressing the Fay of Ashes.

"We'll start with you, _dog_. You will atone for your betrayal and show this devil the way of the Lord through the mortification of the flesh." The unwholesome pleasure, which the young Fay sees in the abbot's eyes, makes Lancelot shudder as he raises his hand to grasp the whip with its many straps, all of various lengths and ending in a knot, which the little man holds out to him. He knows what he has to do.

Removing his clothes one after the other from his ravaged body is already a real torture, but he is finally shirtless, his wounds exposed at the sight of the churchman who seems to be examining him with interest. The Ashen takes a deep breath to try to calm his trembling and drive away the pain that palpitates in his broken bones. He raises his arm and the first blow pinches his back. The little man makes a sound of disdain and Lancelot understands that this is not what he wants to see, he asks for _blood,_ he wishes to see the pain on his tearful face - very well, he will give him what he wants. The second blow is more violent, the straps tear the skin, the nodes bite the flesh and he can feel it, the warm blood flowing between his shoulder blades. A painful moan escapes him and he clenches his teeth before he realises that the sound is not coming from him. When he looks up, Gawain stares at him; the horror and shock he reads in his eyes hurts Lancelot more than the whip, more than Wicklow's scornful sniffing, more than the mocking sneers of the paladins around them who have come to witness his punishment. He feels so defiled, so shabby under that burning gaze that seems to be able to read the dark thoughts that lurk in his vitiated heart. The next blow is hesitant and the next one hits the void next to his shoulder. The abbot becomes impatient and ends up wrenching the whip from him with a sharp gesture... To throw it in front of the knight.

"It's time to learn how to use this. Pick it up, you're going to beat him because it looks like he can't do it properly. »

"Do what you want to me, I will not hit a man on the ground. »

Lancelot contemplates the knight, his eyes wide open in surprise, and his admiration for him grows even greater, accompanied by another feeling that he cannot define - something that inflames his heart every time he sees that proud, wild look in Gawain's magnificent eyes. It must not disappear, this flame that burns so brightly that nothing seems to be able to extinguish it, so alive, so beautiful; this flame that, in his case, has long since been blown away by years of abuse, neglect and lies.

"I leave the choice to you. Ten strokes of your hand... Or thirty strokes of mine. What do you think he would choose? »

The knight focuses his attention on him and the compassion he exudes envelops the Ashen like a soft blanket. Lancelot nods slightly, signifying to his companion in misfortune that the choice is his - he will not ask him to get his hands dirty, he does not deserve his mercy.

Gawain turns his head to spit angrily at the little vicious man's feet before picking up the whip with determination and standing up, the length of the chain barely allowing him to do so. Lancelot cannot suppress the ball of heat that swells in his stomach at the sight of the knight Fay dominating him from all his height. If this is how he must expiate, he submits to his punishment willingly. _Is it his demonic blood that makes him desire atonement more fervently than ever before?_ He turns, exposing his back to his executioner and hears the breath choking in the man's throat at the sight of his mutilated flesh, strewn with scars. _Is it the corruption of his soul that makes the snake twist in his belly when rough fingers touch his skin?_ A soft touch, like the caress of a feather, so unusual for him, who knows only the blows, that he moves away in an irrational startle of fear in the face of this unknown sensation.

" Come on, Green Knight, don't keep your blows back. »

Only an exasperated breath answers her, and the wind whistling between the leather straps just before she slams. Lancelot involuntarily bends his back, his muscles tense and his spine tense as the air suddenly leaves his lungs. The second blow brings out a panting moan that owes nothing to the pain; the blows follow one another, the whip is an extension of Gawain's arm, the straps are nails that dig into the delicate and burning skin, the pleasure bubbling beneath the surface. Lancelot finds himself imagining Gawain's face as he lashes him - is he disgusted and horrified by the sight of blood, which he makes flow in a fine stream, scarlet and warm to his hips? Or does he feel the same ecstatic bliss mixed with desire, to dominate the Weeping Monk, submissive and consenting in this way? It is no longer atonement, suffering becomes a lascivious debauchery in which his depraved body seems to take pleasure, savouring it like a sensual caress. The last blow falls, powerful and devastating like the jouissance that shakes his body, wrenching a broken and hoarse cry from him. He can hardly hear the deaf shock of the wooden handle on the ground, crushed as it is by the weight of his infamy. Tears flow again, they come with the need to repent and Lancelot bends forward, his forehead in the dust, his mouth imploring the Lord's forgiveness.

The heavy iron collar falls and Abbot Wicklow's hands are on him, forcing him to stand up on his knees. A cold, bony hand grasps his chin, pushing his head back so that his weeping eyes meet the joy and demonic pleasure in the little man's eyes.

« You are one of us, my son. God is merciful, he forgives those who sincerely repent. »

The young man can barely grasp the meaning of words in the fog that obscures his thoughts and vision. He does not see Gawain's reaction when the churchman orders him to punish himself, he does not hear his answer... But he sees the paladins taking him away, almost carrying him between them, his broken leg dragging behind him. An atrocious sensation - as if his heart were being torn apart, torn between him and the knight - overwhelms him when he meets the resigned gaze of the Fay and understands the fate that has befallen him. No, _he doesn't want to see him broken_ , he doesn't want to see his own reflection in that gaze so dear to his heart after the paladins have removed everything that makes him such a fiery and fascinating being; an empty gaze, like an opening onto an endless abyss of despair, deprived of his beloved freedom. But Lancelot cannot bring himself to grant his wish, to lose his companion, to be alone again.

It's been three days. Three days of torture and shouting and Lancelot comes out of the tent each day with a slightly heavier heart and a soul torn between his selfish desire and the pain he feels when he faces the knight, the silent supplication of his eyes imploring deliverance. He had tried to free him on the first day; but he was too well guarded, with Trinity guards patrolling all around the tent, and he no longer had his swords - confiscated by Wicklow until he was sure he could trust him. It was on the morning of the fourth day that he finally made his decision.

He is alone in the tent and the knight seems so weak... He doesn't look at him, doesn't speak. Lancelot approaches and kneels down in front of the bloody and motionless body that only the bonds seem to hold seated on the wooden chair. After a few moments of hesitation, he finds the courage to raise his hand and delicately touches the man's cheek, letting his fingers glide over the sweaty skin to dry, cracked lips. He imagines what it would be like to feel this mouth on his own and immediately reproaches himself for this obscene thought. But he can't manage to look away until he meets Gawain's eyes. The shock makes him move backwards like a blow to the face. The eyes that were once so alive, full of emotion, rage, determination, _are empty._ All this has disappeared, the wild flame has gone, leaving only a dull glow, the only proof that life has not left this body. Pain and guilt struck him down.

"I am sorry..." He doesn't recognise his own voice, moaning. Tears run down his cheeks. "Forgive me, Green Knight, I beg you, forgive me for wanting to keep you for myself. "The young man falls backwards sitting on his heels and places his forehead on the other Fay's lap. "I understand now... You are not fit to live in a cage. It's not that you don't want to... _you just can't."_

"They killed him. "Lancelot stands up to face the knight. He seems to have regained consciousness, but apart from the pain and tears, his eyes remain stubbornly empty... What have they done? What kind of torture could have brought a man like him to his knees? "Perceval... _he is dead_. »

The Ashen does not know the person he is talking about, the knight covered in his own blood and seriously injured must be delirious. How could he let it happen? The evidence pierces his chest like a spear - the knight is letting himself die. He will never be like him... Between a life of servitude and death in suffering, Gawain has made his choice, there is no alternative, he will not leave here alive and free. Lancelot hits one of the legs of the chair with a punch while a raging grunt escapes him. He blames himself for not having understood this earlier, for having clung to the stupid and pathetic hope that the knight might resign himself and accept his fate. He should have understood when he promised forgiveness in exchange for a quick and dignified death. He should just do what he has to do and get it over with as long as the fever blunts Fay's conscience, it would be easier for both of them.

"Who is Percival?" Lancelot gets up and searches the workbench next to him.

"They showed me his body... I didn't know... They said he had come for me. "Lancelot looks at him, frowning.

"Who are you talking about, Green Knight?" Gawain turns his head to a chest in the corner of the tent and points to him with a head movement.

Calm but intrigued, the young man walks towards the box and lifts the lid with apprehension. He freezes with the lid half open and turns his head to the side with his eyes closed. He recognises this face... He recognises the boy he had captured in the woods; the child with the sharp tongue, the cheeky little one who reminded him of another boy a long time ago.

"It's all my fault... He came looking for me, and I was gone! "Lancelot can see the tears in the green eyes with swollen eyelids, the unbearable agony he sees makes him feel pathetic, unworthy. _What is his loneliness in comparison to the distress of this man?_

He turns his attention back to the little corpse and horror plants its black, sharp claws in his heart as he forces himself not to turn away again. He kneels down to delicately extract the boy from the trunk, as if he could still hurt him, then with a trembling hand he closes the child's eyes for the last time, his face so young frozen forever, as if sculpted in white marble. Something breaks inside him, something that resembles a residue of innocence and naivety that he didn't think he had kept, a part of him that still believed in divine mercy, goodness, redemption. He saves no one, _he has never saved anyone..._ He is just a damned soul, a destructive creature who came to earth to bring death.

There is no turning back. He puts the child down gently and then gets up, picks up the small dagger found on the workbench and stops in front of the knight.

"You have finally come to take my forgiveness, monk? »

"Lancelot... My name is Lancelot. "

He cuts the ties that hold the knight's wrists to the chair, then crouches down in front of him, gathering the courage to accomplish one last act of compassion. Lancelot tries to control his breathing, his eyes lowered on his hand holding the dagger. A soft touch suddenly makes him shudder, Gawain's fingertips on his cheek, drawing the pattern of his birthmarks down onto his jaw, urging him to raise his head.

"You know there is no other solution. I'm sorry to impose this on you... But there is no one else." He sketches a disgusted grin of contempt. "The truth is that I can't do it myself." Lancelot understands, it's one thing to accept that you can die at any moment, that's the other side of the coin when you live the life of a warrior... _But to voluntarily take your own life..._ To be honest, it's not taking one more life that hurts him so much, it's taking _this life_.

"You could stay. I'll help you, I'll be with you... _I'll do whatever you want._ "

The young man's voice breaks, interspersed with sobs and difficult breathing. "Please, _Gawain_ , don't ask me that... "Gawain looks at him with compassion in his eyes, something almost like tenderness.

« You should forget all that… Close your eyes and forget everything I said to you. You can go on living like you used to, it will be easier that way." He strokes his hair gently. "I wish I was strong enough to save you. You didn't deserve all this... You suffered more than most of us, I can see that now - I saw it on your body, _in your eyes._ I can't go on... Find it in your heart to do this for me. Don't cry for me my angel, this is a deliverance you grant me. »

Lancelot nods and stands up on his knees, tightening his grip on the dagger handle.He drags himself between the knight's legs and grabs the shirt in tatters of the man who opened his eyes and now tears what is left of him.He drags himself between the knight's legs and grabs the shirt in tatters of the man who opened his eyes and now tears what is left of him. He leans closer and lays his lips on Gawain's bleeding lips. His trembling hand lets go of the shirt to slide affectionately on the other man's cheek as he tastes his lips with a devouring passion, which the knight seems to share.

It's all over in a few seconds. When he pushes the blade between the ribs, this hand doesn't tremble. The stroke is precise, fast - _experienced_. Gawain hiccups as his body twitches, and when he draws his last breath, Lancelot can feel his cracked lips stretch into a painful smile.

He walks away lowering his head, not daring to look at the lifeless face of the man he loved, his hand still supporting his head. He drops the dagger before getting up to delicately take the lifeless body of the child lying on the ground, placing it on Gawain's lap, his head against his chest where no heart beats any more. Finally finding the courage to raise his eyes, he contemplates the serene and lifeless face, but it gives him no relief. He closes his eyelids over the dead eyes, _from which the flame has disappeared forever_ , and comes out. He has never been so aware of what he must do. For the first time, he knows that his destiny is his own. Tonight, the Weeping Monk no longer exists - Lancelot has finally claimed his freedom and the angel wants to spread his dark wings.

Silent as a shadow, he enters Wicklow's tent, finding him asleep, in a peaceful sleep - he shouldn't be able to sleep, not with all the suffering for which he is responsible. Kneeling beside the unconscious little man, Lancelot leans over him, his hands clasping around his throat. For once in his life, he feels that he is doing something _right,_ something _good_ , a step on the road to redemption. The abbot wakes up and struggles, but he doesn't stand a chance against the warrior. His complexion becomes coloured, red, he starts to violate, his eyes exorbed; then he stops fidgeting and scratching the Ashen's forearms and his body falls back against the bunk.

When he returns to Gawain's tent, no one is aware of anything - they have no reason to check the prisoner. For Wicklow, on the other hand... That's another matter. Lancelot knows that he has only a short time left before someone discovers the body and sounds the alarm. Of course, he could run away - _but what's the point?_ Alone again, there's a price on his head and no help to expect from anyone. _No, this is no longer an option_. He could fight, fall in battle - but for whom? What cause can he still defend? He no longer has faith in anything. Everything he believed in, everything he cared about... it's all gone.

There is only one thing left for him to do. He slips into the tent without being seen by the guards this time, not wanting to arouse suspicion because of a second visit so soon after he had left. The young man looks at the lifeless bodies of the two Fays in the middle of the tent, their faces peaceful - _it's the right thing to do._ The Weeping Monk has to disappear for good, and Lancelot is ready to leave this world with him, there's nothing left to connect him here. He picks up the bloody dagger - _Gawain's blood._ Of course, suicide is a sin... But he knows that no matter what he does, he has no hope of redemption, his soul has been condemned for a long time - and even if he still had a chance to find eternal rest in the kingdom of God, he wouldn't want it. The Fay do not believe in God. There is no attraction in a world where Gawain is not ... Lancelot renounces paradise without remorse, there is only loneliness for him there; _rather burning in the Fires of Hell with Gawain._

The Ashman kneels down beside the Green Knight and lays his cheek on the Fay's thigh, admiring his beautiful, ravaged and bloody face. He grabs one of Gawain's still warm hands and places it on his other cheek, seeking a comforting contact in his last moments, the impression of being _accompanied, supported_. He knows where the heart is, that palpitating and painful thing that tortures him tirelessly. The tip of the dagger lies just below his sternum. He keeps his eyes focused on Gawain, because he wants his face to be the last image he takes with him, finding the courage to do what needs to be done in contemplating the only good thing that ever happens to him.The gesture is precise, the blade penetrates the flesh, points upwards, finding the heart under the ribs, piercing it; Lancelot pulls the knife out and drops it, allowing the blood to flow faster. He feels his strength abandoning him, tiredness and cold invading him, but he is not afraid. He understands now - it is better to die free than to live kneeling. Gawain's hand on his face is all he needs and he holds it until his consciousness finally dies, drawing the curtain on all his suffering, giving him the rest he so longed for.


End file.
